The Outsiders
by gingerwatson
Summary: John Watson moves house and, as a result, schools. In his final year with his exams upon him, he befriends a boy named Sherlock. Through him, John finds sanctuary amongst the chaos of his life in the form of love. Together they face heartbreak and loss, prejudice and judgement, and something which will ultimately test the true strength of their bond.
1. Prologue

St Bartholomew's High School: a new term, a new uniform, and a new start for John Hamish Watson.

John was new to London, having moved from Up North with his parents and older sister, Harry, for her recovery as an alcoholic. The change of scene and a rehab centre would both hopefully provide the sufficient help for her to get sober. Being 16 and in his last year of High School, John couldn't deny that initially, he was slightly annoyed at having his exams interrupted, but things had been sorted, and his sister was ultimately more important in his eyes, so he'd gotten over that quickly.

Still, he was nervous. In his last school, he'd had a decent handful of friends and was popular amongst the school's rugby team. He'd been One Of The Boys and a real charm with the teachers. Here, he'd be no one. A stranger, a newbie, an outsider. An intruder, even. Would he fit in? Would he make friends? Would he end up eating lunch alone for the last year of his school life? John hoped yes to the first two and a big fat no to the latter.

Since his Mum would be taking Harry to rehab that morning, John opted to get the school bus that, luckily for him, pulled up at 7:30AM at the bus stop across the street from his new house on the quiet, bland estate. A few minutes late and it finally rounded the corner and stopped, and the short, blonde boy got on, quickly making his way to a seat before the bus could pull away again and make him lose his balance.

He ended up seated second row from the back, on the left, the only seat available. A boy sat beside him, earphones in with his head leant against the window. He was in his last year too, that much John could tell from the colour of his striped tie (that was in a very loose knot around his neck); Year 11 wore red, the rest wore green. John spared the boy a few glances before accepting his first journey to his new school would be one without friendly chit-chat. Right then.

John pulled out his mobile.

_No new messages._

He decided to text his best and oldest friend, Mike.

**Had to get the school bus on my first day. Last seat. Stuck with a lad listening to music and staring depressingly out the window. Git didn't so much as look up, let alone give a friendly hello. It won't all be like this will it?**

"I object to that statement. I was not staring depressingly out the window, and I'm not a git."

John nearly jumped out of his fucking skin at the deep voice so close to his ear. He whipped his head around (causing the boy to jump back against his seat) just as the bus jerked to a halt, causing a sharp twinge of pain to shoot through his neck and his thick-framed glasses to end up lopsided on his face. John gasped and winced, a hand reaching up to clutch at his neck, and all the while the boy beside him eyed him strangely and curiously, head tilted to the side much like a cat. John rubbed at his neck until the pain ebbed away, then huffed, straightening his glasses and pushing them up his nose. "Done gawking? And don't read texts over someone's shoulder, it's bloody rude."

"I object to that, too. I do not "gawk", I _observe_. There's a difference, you inane idiot."

John raised an eyebrow, getting slowly ticked off.

"Well carry on observing through the window, then. I was hoping for conversation from whoever I sat with but I think I'll pass now, since the person turned out to be a _fucking_ git."

_From: Mike _

_Give it a chance, mate, you might like it. Good luck. _

The smaller boy looked to his left, folding his arms after putting his mobile away. "Slim chances of that happening," he grumbled.

"Oh, and he replies verbally to his texts, now. You _are _aware that's not how it works, aren't you?" The boy's gaze landed on him with a smirk.

"Oh sod off, you arse."


	2. One

John's first day, most likely like everyone else's first day, went excruciatingly slowly. All he wanted to do was get home – or to what his dysfunctional family wanted to call home - and work on a painting he'd been trying to finish for weeks. During the holidays, he'd been busy with all the stuff concerning Harry and moving, packing everything into boxes ready to be transported across the country, and saying goodbye to his friends. All of that was on top of sorting school out, making it so he could do his exams here. He was unsettled and anxious, and the sooner he was in his new room, at his desk with his earphones in, the better.

"Welcome to a new term, and welcome to our new student – John Watson!" Their maths teacher said as he stood behind his desk, preparing to take class register, and John groaned and put his head in his hands, wanting to collapse in on himself. He could feel eyes on him, and he wanted to vomit at the unwanted attention. He didn't feel much relief when those eyes averted.

Mr. Clark was around five foot three and roughly in his mid-forties, with a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on this end of his bulbous nose which was so huge that it shadowed his thick, bristly, and greying moustache, a moustache that was once all brown. His hair had no brown left at all and it was slicked back with too much Brylcreem. _People still use Brylcreem? _John thought to himself, watching as the light bounced off Mr. Clark's sickeningly wet-looking hair, before realising he didn't actually care.

John had a seat at the front of the classroom. All the desks were single, isolated ones, and for that he was kind of glad since he was neither good at - nor interested in – speaking to other people, not when he was the New Kid and not when he was being spotlighted by both teachers and the fact his desk was _right at the bloody front of the room._

When Mr. Clark was done with the register, he dove right in with the first thing on this year's syllabus – algebra. John was average at best when it came to maths, but he'd scraped Cs and gotten by, which didn't please his parents too much. _"John,"_ they'd say. _"If you're going to become a doctor, you need to try harder!"_ and he'd say, _"I don't want to be a doctor, I want to be an artist!"_ to which they'd roll their eyes and, for the one hundredth time, tell him why a career in medicine would be far more beneficial than a "stupid" art one.

Feeling fed up already, John sat glumly at his desk, elbow on the table with his chin resting on his hand. His eyes were sore, the time spent moving house making him still extremely tired, and they were slowly closing as Mr. Clark's monotonous voice droned on about geometry when suddenly the door to the classroom slammed open and someone stalked to the front, taking their seat at the desk left of John's.

"Ah, Holmes," Mr. Clark said, clearly displeased. "Nice of you to finally join us." It seemed he was a man thick with sarcasm and a general distaste for youth until John looked to his left and saw who the student was.

"Not nice of me, just necessary," the boy remarked grumpily, sat with his long, outdated coat still on and his arms folded defiantly. John couldn't look away from that coat. It pooled on the floor around him, the dark, thick, inky black material looking warm, new, and madly expensive. He let his eyes trail up his profile. John's chest contracted painfully when he finally caught sight of a curly mass of dark brown hair. His face was long and pale, cheeks and smooth-sloped nose dusted lightly with freckles. That face had high cheekbones and thick, defined lips, and long eyelashes that caught the sun perfectly.

"Fuck," John gasped rather loudly, jerking himself out of his thoughts, shocked at his body's reactions. His heart, he discovered, was beating rapidly, and his lips were moist where he'd licked them thoughtfully.

"_WATSON!" _Mr. Clark hollered, slamming his fist down on his desk. "That is _no _way to speak in this school, especially not on your first day!"

John's face went bright red, and all eyes were once again on him. He heard a few giggles from the back, and a few whispers of "freak" and "weirdo". His chest contracted again but this time out of panic, breathing quickly becoming a difficult task. To make matters worse, he hadn't yet looked away, and the boy turned to him, eyebrow raised quizzically, lips downturned.

"Can I help you?" he drawled, and John's vision blurred.

His breaths were getting harder to take by the second, and John scrambled frantically at his desk until he could stand on his wobbly legs. He turned, stumbling between desks in an embarrassing attempt to get to the door. All around him was laughter that was suddenly deafening, eyes that refused to look away, and insults being projected at him that he'd heard a thousand times before but was unused to having aimed his way. When he finally got to the door, he couldn't get it open soon enough, and it seemed like air rushed to his lungs as soon as he was outside.

John walked quickly, wanting to be as far away from that room as he could get, away from Mr. Clark's greasy hair and the judgemental strangers and the confusingly attractive boy. John found himself the out of order toilets. Trying the door and finding it unlocked, he slipped inside and hid in a stall, breathing returning to normal at last.

* * *

John checked his phone for the tenth time since he'd locked himself in one of the unused toilet cubicles. According to the lit-up screen of his crappy Nokia, it had been almost five hours, and the school day was almost at an end. Another twenty minutes or so, and John could leave.

His stomach gave a painful growl and he clutched at it through his shirt, realising his lunch was still packed and uneaten in his bag. He wrinkled his nose up at the thought of eating it in these grubby toilets though, deciding he'd eat once he'd gotten home.

_Home_, he thought bitterly. He'd have to get the bus back again, with all those strangers. It was that or a long, lonely walk, once again with strangers. Neither sounded appealing, but at least the bus would be quicker. Choice made, he slung his bag over his shoulder and unlocked the cubicle door, but just as he slid the latch across, he heard the door to the toilets open and footsteps on the cracked tile flooring. John's breath caught and he stood silent and still, listening, waiting.

John heard the sound of a lighter being flicked down, and a second later saw smoke rising above the cubicles. _Shit, shit, shit_, John thought to himself, mind racing. _How the fuck do I get out of this?_

"Whoever you are, you may as well come out," a deep voice echoed around the room, and John was sure he paled, sure he could feel the blood drain from his face.

Taking a deep breath, John let the cubicle door swing open, and out he stepped. The toilets had now taken on the horrible stench of cigarette smoke on top of their already pungent odour. It was positively foul, but still better than that classroom. John found himself sharing the room with that boy, the one Mr. Clark had referred to as "Holmes", and suddenly John found it hard to breathe again.

"Ah, so this is where you scurried off to," the taller, skinnier boy said, eyeing John. "I do hope you don't plan to spend every day hiding in here, though judging from your face, my smoking will quickly put you off that idea."

"My what?" John asked dumbly, staring once again.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Maybe that's not what your expression is for, then. Damn. There's always something..." he trailed off quietly before coming back to himself. "Anyway, this place is out of order, you shouldn't be here. Hurry along, and make sure you tell no one about me being here."

"Why would I... Wait, why are _you _here? School is over, you could smoke outside," John challenged, crossing his arms and waiting for a reply. He watched as Sherlock held up his cigarette, gesturing at it with his other hand. _His fingers,_ John mused, _are very long. God, they're long._

"I can't smoke these outside," the boy said, as it if should have been obvious to John. "My family don't know I smoke and my brother has ways of finding things out and blabbing, and if my parents find out I'm yet again breaking school rules, lord knows what my punishment would be this time. I'm surprised the smarmy git hasn't rigged this place with CCTV yet. He did it with my previous places of...mischief."

John leant against a rusty sink, putting aside the brother and the CCTV for the time being. "Your parents are pushy like that too? Christ, I can't even get through the front door without them banging on at me to do things _they_ want. It's constant." He gave a friendly smile to the taller boy, then stopped leaning so he could take a step forward and hold out his hand. "I'm John, by the way. And I won't tell, promise."

The boy sniffed, taking a last drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and stubbing it out with his shoe. He regarded John carefully, looking him up and down for a few moments before finally nodding approvingly, and, rather hesitantly, taking John's hand in a firm grip and shaking. "Call me Sherlock," he said, giving his own, tiny smile in return.

"Sherlock? Really? Does your brother have a weird name too?" John laughed, letting Sherlock's hand go. At his blank face, he stopped laughing. "I'm kidding. It's better than my boring name. I like it."

"Well, I'm so glad you like my name, John. That's a relief. How about my smoking habit, do you like that too?" he asked, and John couldn't quite tell if he was being serious or not, but Sherlock's blank expression didn't shift, and so John decided he was.

"I, er... I don't condone it, but each to their own. I don't smoke, though," John replied, shrugging his bag back onto his shoulder again where it had been slipping. "I should...get going. I'll miss the bus."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd sprouted a second head. "You've hidden all day in here, and now you're going to stroll out all casual and get the school bus home? It's like you're asking for trouble. Here, follow me," he said, and made his way to the far wall. The abandoned toilets were at the back of the school, and on the other side of that wall was nothing but old field that was once used for P.E, but was now used for...well, nothing. The window was open, lock bust, and Sherlock climbed up onto a sink and shoved it open further, the old hinges creaking in protest. He looked back down at the blonde-haired boy, calling him over with a gesture of his head. "Come on, it's big enough for us to fit through. I do it all the time. I'll go first," he said, and John watched as Sherlock easily manoeuvred his lanky frame through the window, and a moment later he was gone. "Now you!" he called from outside. "Come on!"

John knew he should go and get the bus and forget about Sherlock and his cigarettes and this smelly bathroom, but curiosity and the pure rush and wrongness of it all left him wanting more, and John barely registered his own movements as he clambered onto the sink as Sherlock had done minutes before and, not quite as easily, climbed through the window. His feet landed on soft, long grass, and Sherlock was grinning down at him one minute and running off the next.

"Come _on_, John!" he called out behind him, and John blindly obliged, the two of them taking off into a sprint across the field until neither of them could run any more.

They came to the fence at the perimeter, right at the other end of the field, a huge archway cut out of it. John suspected it was Sherlock's handiwork, and his suspicions were proved correct when Sherlock made his way to it and led them through. Finally, they were free.

John and Sherlock walked for a while, comfortable in the silence they had as they fell into step with each other. Together they went for what could have been miles, just walking and walking until their feet ached. In the end, they ended up at a small park. They were alone apart from a woman sat on a bench further away, catching her breath after a jog, and the man who was getting ready to pack up his coffee stand for the day. When the man saw the two boys approaching, he broke out into a brilliant smile.

"Sherlock!" he said in a thick London accent. "You've caught me just in time, I was about to go home. Two coffees, is it?" he asked, smiling kindly at them both, not waiting for an answer before he poured the coffee into two brown paper cups.

"John here will have milk in his," Sherlock said, and John turned to him in surprise but said nothing.

The man handed them their coffee – Sherlock's black, John's with milk. Sherlock added two sugars and stirred them in, while John added none. The smaller boy went to hand over some money from his pocket, but the man just shook his head and smiled more. "A favour for my favourite customer and his date," he said.

John's eyes bulged out of his head. "I'm not his date!" he screeched, face going red, but the man just chuckled and began wiping the metal counter of his stall with a cloth.

"Thank you, Angelo," Sherlock said, and John barely managed an appreciative nod in all his embarrassment, but to his relief, Sherlock led them away to a nearby bench where they could sit and drink their coffee.

A few minutes of silence passed before John had to break the silence, clearing his throat. "So," he began, clutching the hot cup tightly to ease his anxiety. "You do this a lot?"

Sherlock took a long drink from his coffee, which John found absurd because it was absolutely still too hot to drink that quickly. _What, does he have an asbestos-lined throat or something? Bloody hell. _"I don't escape through the window half as much as I used to when I first discovered it. I mainly use the toilets to smoke in now. But I was like you once. The New Kid. Needed a place to run to, and I ran to the toilets, found the window, and just kept running." His eyes seemed far away as he explained, but then he turned to look at John with an unfathomable expression on his face and everything told John to look away but he just couldn't. His eyes were too much. Too colourful, too inquisitive, too piercing. Too old for such a young face.

John looked down at his cup. "Do you ever get the urge to never stop running?" he asked quietly.

The taller boy said nothing, having another drink from his cup. John was about to start feeling stupid for asking that question when, still without a word, Sherlock slid slightly closer to him on the cold, metal bench. Even though John didn't know why, it was somehow a comfort, and he smiled around the plastic lid on his coffee, exhaling his visible breath into the cold, London air.


	3. Two

The next few weeks went by at a much faster pace than the first day did, and John slowly settled in. He found that the longer he was there, the less people paid attention to him, even if he did still get a few stares and laughs when he was alone in certain lessons or sat by himself in the cafeteria, but he could just about cope with that.

It was home life that was the main reason for John's worsening depression. With Harry away at rehab, it was just him and his Mum and Dad in the house. Both his parents were doctors and often worked long hours, leaving John to look after the house and make his own meals most of the time. John was happy enough to do that since it gave him peace and quiet to get on with his art and homework. When they were home, however, it was a different story. There was rarely a time when they weren't getting on at him about being a doctor, or stopping with his "ridiculous drawings" and it all left John feeling very angry and frustrated.

**It's like I'm just not good enough, Mike. If I'm not like them, they don't want me.**

_They can't stop you from doing what you want, mate. You're old enough to make your own choices._

**Tell them that. I fucking hate it here.**

_I wish I could help. Just hang in there, they'll see sense._

John threw his phone to the floor in a fit of anger, momentarily seeing red. Mike's bland and unhelpful responses had snapped what little patience he had left, and he instantly regretted his actions. At the loud sound the phone had made, his Mum stormed upstairs to see what was wrong.

"JOHN WATSON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she yelled, and John cowered back on the bed, wincing at his Mum's usual extremely bad temper. It had been that way ever since he could remember, and when her and his Dad used to make him cry from shouting as a kid, they'd put it down to them being tired from long shifts at work and apologise, until it happened again the next day. Now it seemed like it was just their natural state, and they used John as a means of releasing their anger. If he said it didn't terrify him, he'd be lying.

"N-Nothing, I just dropped my phone," John said quietly, looking down at his hands.

His Mum picked it up. "Shouldn't you be doing homework? You know the rules – no electronics until your work is done. You'll never become a doctor if you don't concentrate!" she scolded, and lit up the screen on his Nokia. John instantly began to panic. When her eyes bulged with anger and her face reddened, he knew he was fucked. "Hate it here, do you?" she asked, not even trying to mask her fury, her voice wavering from it. "_HATE IT, DO YOU?_" she screamed at him, and John couldn't stop the tears that quickly built and cascaded down his cheeks. His face was a deeper red than hers.

She launched the phone at the floor and brought her foot down heavily onto it, smashing it. John's mouth opened in shock and he sat there, staring at his Mum plunge into a rage. What he didn't expect was her lunging at him with her hand spread. Her palm connected hard with his cheek and it stung, his skin tingling where contact had been made. She'd never, ever struck him before, and neither had his Dad, and he was paralysed by it, and then she was gone, stalking out of the room and back down the stairs.

John shook himself out of it and it was all a blur as he shoved clean underwear and socks, a couple of t-shirts, a can of deodorant and his toothpaste and tooth brush into his bag. He didn't think twice before putting on his worn, tatty Converse and taking the steps two at a time down the stairs. Before his parents could do anything, he was throwing open the front door and legging it up the concrete drive of their front garden, and then he was away.

He knew exactly where he was going. Half an hour later, John arrived at the same park he'd visited with Sherlock three weeks before. It was getting dark, and Angelo and his coffee stand were gone, and John sat alone and shivering on the same bench as before, his bag beside him. _Where will I go? What will I do? I can't go back. I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't ever go back. _

John felt warmth on his left hand where it clutched the bench, and he over to find, to his surprise, a dog licking his hand fondly. It was natural of him to reach out and scratch behind its ears, and it leaned into his touch. Then John noticed it had a collar but no lead attached to it. The silver tag on the collar read 'Redbeard' and John chuckled. "Redbeard, huh?" he said, ruffling its fur. "Who do you belong to then, boy?"

"John?" a voice called out, and John felt his heart and stomach lurch almost painfully. He looked up and saw Sherlock jogging towards him and Redbeard.

"Sherlock!" he greeted, trying not to sound too happy at seeing him. "I take it this one's yours?"

The taller boy took a seat beside him, attaching a lead to Redbeard's collar before petting him fondly, leaning down to press a few kisses to his head. "Good boy, good boy," he cooed, before turning to John. "Yes, he's mine. Irish Setter, got him last Summer. He doesn't judge me, therefore I spend as much of my time in his company as I possibly can. I see he introduced himself to you," Sherlock said, smiling widely down at his dog.

"He's lovely," John remarked, already feeling his panic and sadness melting away. It wasn't until Sherlock looked back up at him with a very intense look that he remembered very vividly why he was even there at all.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked simply.

John looked away, clasping his hands in his lap and fiddling with them nervously, feeling nauseous. Sherlock was watching him intently, awaiting an answer, but he never even had a chance to answer before Sherlock launched into his own explanation.

"Your parents are both in a proud profession, one that they're very keen for you to pursue yourself as you said the last time we saw each other, so a lawyer or a doctor - probably a doctor. You have other ideas, and with such friction between you and them, it's likely that your interests are on the other end of the scale, leaning towards something more creative. I'm guessing art, since you have smudges of graphite on the sides of your hands. You want to be an artist, and they want different, and they're very "pushy" about it. You have your bag with you and it's full of overnight possessions, but you have no friends here so you can't have actual plans to stay elsewhere and that means they can't have kicked you out, not unless they're _really_ that crazy, so you just ran away without thinking it through. Something must have happened for you to take such drastic action- Oh."

John had his head bent with his hands over his face, and he was crying, shoulders shaking as he tried to conceal it. It was partly through shock at being told so bluntly and that Sherlock knew, but mostly at how true it was, and once John had started crying, he suddenly found that he couldn't stop. Heaving sobs escaped him, and he also began to shiver more and more in the freezing cold. He only lowered his hands from his face when he felt something heavy being draped around his shoulders.

_Sherlock's coat._

Redbeard started nuzzling at his hand when he put them at his sides again, and Sherlock looked sincerely apologetic, scooting closer to him on the bench just like he had before. "I'm sorry, John, I- I shouldn't have done that."

The smaller boy pulled the coat tighter around him, wishing he'd put on a jumper before he left. "It's okay," he said with a shrug, "it's all true. I just wish it wasn't, and I have nowhere to go and I just can't go back. I can't, and you know why..."

"They hit you."

"_She_," John corrected. "It was my Mum. She read texts I sent to my friend Mike, ones where I was saying how much I hate it here, and how much I...how much I hate _them._"

"Come on," Sherlock announced, and John had a feeling he was going to become used to hearing those words from that mouth. "You're coming home with me, I can't leave you here like this and I refuse to let you go back there."

John couldn't really argue. There was no argument to be had, and he was too upset and tired to even begin to conjure one up, so he stood, still hugging the heavy coat around his body, and they began to walk. Sherlock led the way with Redbeard trotting loyally at his right side and John on his left, and twenty minutes later they arrived at Sherlock's house. It was not dissimilar to John's on the outside, but had a gravel path instead of concrete and gold numbers nailed to the door reading '27'.

Sherlock took them into the house. Redbeard walked off once Sherlock let him off the lead, and the taller boy led John through to the living room where a woman in her forties was sat in an armchair with a book in her hands. At their presence, she lowered the book and peered at them over the top of her reading glasses, an affectionate smile on her face. She stood and greeted her son with a kiss on his cheek.

"Hello, dear," she spoke softly, then turned her attention to John. "And who do we have here? You never bring friends back, darling."

John blushed slightly, shuffling his feet awkwardly on the floral carpet. "I'm John. John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holmes," he replied, giving her a smile, albeit a sad one.

"Oh, now, what's got you so upset, dear?" she asked, frowning a motherly frown, taking off her glasses and hooking then on her shirt.

"Problems at home," Sherlock cut in, "and I'll tell you about it later. For now, John needs a place to stay urgently. Is it alright for him to stay here?" he asked, and John was very surprised at how easily she complied, and with a beaming smile too, a smile that looked exactly like her son's.

"Of course he may," Mrs Holmes said, then gave Sherlock another kiss on the cheek. "Does he like casserole?"

Sherlock just chuckled, and John found himself joining in, and Mrs Holmes smiled at them both as she went away to the kitchen.

"Let's go," Sherlock said, nudging John in the arm before leading them both upstairs to his room. They had a staircase with a plain cream carpet, one that must be hell to clean should it get dirty, and on the wall all the way up were framed photos of Sherlock and another boy, getting older as the stairs went on.

"Who's the other boy. Your brother?" John asked curiously as they entered Sherlock's bedroom.

"Mycroft, yes, and he's a pain in my arse," Sherlock replied, taking John's bag and hanging it on the back of his door. John still had Sherlock's coat around him, and John took it off and hung that up too, glad to be in a warm, safe place. It was only then that he realised he was suddenly in the bedroom of a boy he'd talked to twice in the space of three weeks, in a house he was now temporarily calling 'home'.

"So you _do _have a brother with a weird name!" John laughed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Yes, John," he stated. "So. You're okay with staying here, then?"

John shrugged, looking away. "What choice do I have? I just feel like a burden now, and I don't want to intrude where I don't belong." He gaped when one of Sherlock's pillows hit him square in the face. "Oi! Watch it, you git!" he said, throwing the pillow back which Sherlock dodged easily, laughing with his arms over his stomach.

"You say such sweet things, John," the boy teased. "I never knew you cared."

"Oh sod off," John threw back, but grinned and joined Sherlock where he was sitting on the bed, back against the wall. He turned his head to look at the taller boy, but didn't meet his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured, not knowing what else to say but meaning it with all his heart all the same.

He wasn't expecting the quiet "you're welcome, John" that escaped Sherlock's mouth, and he definitely didn't expect him to lean forwards and peck his cheek. John blushed madly, and Sherlock announced he was going to make tea, not even stopping to get John's preferences before he was dashing out of the door, all long limbs and pale skin and perfect, perfect everything. Even after he'd disappeared, John continued staring at the spot he'd last been, in a daze.

John brought his knees up to chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, smiling bashfully, fully aware of the feeling that was slowly starting to build in his heart, and just for a while, all his other problems faded away, Sherlock's image in his mind's eye standing victoriously in their wake.


	4. Three

This chapter is just a little filler. I'm kinda having a block right now and I can't concentrate, but I wanted to post something at least. Thank you to everyone who has favd/followed so far, you guys know who you are and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. A longer chapter will be posted soon, I promise.

* * *

Waking up in alien surroundings is something you never quite get used to. That momentary feeling of disorientation when you first open your eyes but not quite fully, the haze and fog of sleep just beginning to lift, and the double-take you do when you realise the bed you're in is not yours and the room isn't either. In fact, the whole damn building isn't, and you're forced to go through all the events that made you end up there before you can even begin to contemplate moving.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. We have places to be, people to see. Get up, John."

John groaned and sat up slowly from the bottom bunk of Sherlock's bunk beds (which Sherlock originally shared with Mycroft until they decided they needed separate rooms), rubbed his eyes, then put his arms up over his head intending to stretch. Instead, his hands hit the bottom of the top bunk painfully, and he winced, swore, and shook them until the pain ebbed away again.

He looked at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. "Places? People?" he asked, confused.

The lanky boy nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Yes, John. I'll explain over breakfast, so get dressed and come down when you're ready. I found you an old t-shirt of mine, it'll fit – I checked." No sooner had he finished he was out of the room and taking the steps two at a time down the stairs.

"It'll fit? What?" John mumbled to himself, before assuming: _He probably just looked at me and worked it out, the smart-arse. _He looked around for the t-shirt Sherlock mentioned, finding it folded nearly over the back of Sherlock's leather desk chair. It was grey with a faded print of a light pink skull on the front. John didn't care that it probably didn't suit him as he changed into it; fashion wasn't exactly a priority in John's life, since he seemed to spend half of it in old, paint-stained t-shirts anyway. Besides, he didn't have anyone to please, not even himself. He put on his blue skinny jeans and yesterday's black socks, combed his fingers through his mop of blonde hair so it looked purposefully messy instead of dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards-messy, then went downstairs himself.

At the breakfast table, John met Mycroft for the first time. He was drinking tea with his pinky finger out and flicking through that morning's paper. When John went to take a seat next to Sherlock, Mycroft looked up and greeted him with a smile and a clipped "hello, John" that, for some reason, creeped John out rather than welcomed him. Still, he said hello back to the older boy, then turned his attention to Sherlock.

"So, what have you planned for today?" he asked as Sherlock poured them both tea from an expensive-looking china teapot with a dainty letter 'H' engraved on the front in gold. There was also plenty of toast and butter and an assortment of jams and other spreads to choose from. Suddenly John felt guilty for sponging off them the way he was and was overcome with the urge to thank them for their generosity and great hospitality.

"For you to wipe that guilty look off your face, for starters," Mrs Holmes said with a smile as she passed, busying herself with housework. John smiled at her sheepishly.

"That aside," Sherlock said exasperatedly, "we're going to your house to get your things. If you're going to be living here, you'll need your belongings."

John choked on a mouthful of tea and stared Sherlock down, deadly serious. "I'm not going back there. I'm not. You can't make me. I refuse," John declared, trying to put his foot down, but Sherlock was having none of it. He bit into a triangle of toast, carrying on as if John hadn't said anything.

"You're sixteen and they cannot stop you from retrieving your things. We'll go, knock on the door, and ask politely to get your things and leave as quickly as possible. If they refuse, we call the police and tell them why they made you run away."

John sighed, shoving his tea away from him dejectedly. "Okay," he agreed quietly, because he might not have wanted to go there, not at all, but he knew it had to be done.


	5. Four

**TRIGGER WARNING** for vague but what I think are fairly obvious mentions of self-harm.

Hi again, guys! Slightly longer chapter this time. I actually wanted this to be longer but as I was writing I found that it ended in a nice way. I'm happy with how this chapter worked out, and we're finally getting somewhere with the boys! Yay! Enjoy. x

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" John asked nervously as they approached his house. "You don't have to do this with me. I can handle it. I mean, you barely know me and you're just...doing so much, and I feel horrible about it."

Sherlock ignored the smaller boy, taking another drag on his cigarette and then tapping ash out to his side. Leading the way with his long coat billowing behind him, Sherlock opened the front gate and together they walked down the drive to the door. Sherlock knocked twice. A few moments later, a woman opened it.

John's Mum. "Decided to crawl back, have you?" she asked, aiming her question at John, who looked away with a grimace.

Sherlock saw the way he reacted to the woman and narrowed his eyes, taking another few drags, blowing the smoke sideways out of his mouth. "John's here for his things," he drawled, "so if you don't mind, we'll be in and out in less than half an hour." Sherlock was stood to his full height with John behind him, and it looked like a very bold display of protectiveness. The small, dumpy woman started to close the door in their faces, but Sherlock darted out his foot to stop it, leaning in close. "Unless, of course, you want the Police to know why John is in this situation in the first place?" When her face contorted into a mixture of panic and rage, Sherlock smirked, leaning back again.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she asked, but stood aside, muttering to herself as Sherlock guided John through the door before following himself. "I want you gone in half an hour, do you hear me? Gone!" she yelled after them as they hurried upstairs.

John was silent as they grabbed his things from his wardrobe and chest of drawers and shoved them into his large, navy blue suitcase. His art equipment and sketchbooks got packed into a small rucksack, and his books, electronics and other things were packed into another matching one. Suddenly the blonde boy was glad he didn't own much, and within twenty minutes they were done and ready to leave. Just before they did, however, Sherlock put the bag he was carrying down on John's bed and walked over to him where he was stood looking out of the window.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked quietly, observing his friend carefully. The light from outside was spilling in and lighting up John's face, making his hair and skin glow, and his bright blue eyes sparkle as they turned to fix on him. What Sherlock didn't like was glum, straight line of his mouth and the way his eyebrows were furrowed. He looked sadder than anyone of that age should, and certainly sadder than Sherlock had ever seen anyone be at all.

"I wish I had your life," John said simply and then looked away with a sigh. "Your Mum is nice and I'm guessing your Dad is too, and your brother doesn't seem too bad. They let a complete stranger stay in their house in their time of need, for God's sake. My parents would never do that. They drove my sister to the bottle because they treated her the way they treat me, and they drove me to..." John stopped himself and swallowed, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He unconsciously clenched and unclenched his hands into fists, the pain of it all coursing through him, and he turned to look back out of the window even though his eyes were far away and not focussed on the world beyond the glass.

Sherlock let his gaze wander from John's face down his neck and shoulders and his arms to his hands, where he was still clenching them. Sherlock reached out, touching his fingertips to the soft skin of John's left hand. He observed as the shorter boy's breath hitched and his gaze snapped to him, head turning sharply, and as Sherlock turned John's hand over wrist-side up, John began to pull away.

Bingo.

"Show me, John," Sherlock whispered, keeping eye contact with John.

"Why should I?" John replied as he snatched his arm away. eyes searching Sherlock's frantically. "I barely know you! My life is falling apart and I'm living in your house and _I don't know you!_" John cried, shaking from head to toe. "I don't know anything any more. My sister is in rehab, my parents are shit, and the only person I can call a friend is you. School is depressing, everything is depressing. Everything is just...just..." John couldn't continue. His words were overtaken by small, shaky sobs that threatened grow into more, like the first far-away rumbles of thunder in a storm. John turned his back to the window and dropped unceremoniously to the floor, legs outstretched and head hanging as he cried, arms limp and useless at his sides. He looked utterly defeated.

Sherlock slid down the wall next to him and turned to look at his friend, his expression one of sympathy, but that of which he wasn't too sure how to express. He shuffled closer, bum sliding across the navy blue carpet, until their sides were touching. Sherlock bit his lip in thought, thinking of what to say as he watched his friend struggle. For some reason, he wanted to comfort John. He wanted to spend more time with him, wanted to talk to him all day, wanted to evoke laughter and joy from him. He was vastly interesting and infinitely wonderful and Sherlock wanted to soak him up and he hadn't the faintest clue as to how he'd gotten so attached so quickly, but he had, and there he was, staring at the boy he was probably, likely, most definitely falling in love with. Suddenly, he knew exactly what to say.

"I trust you," he murmured, "and that's not easy for me to do. See, John, I'm not what people would call "sociable" and by that I mean I don't have friends. That's not the result of me moving away, not like it is with you. No, you were popular and well-liked amongst your old social group, and given time, I'm sure you'll build up a nice bunch again because that's who you are. People like you. People don't like me."

John sniffed and looked over at Sherlock, this new-found speech catching the blonde's attention. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him so he could continue.

"I'm Autistic. I'm not good with people, and people aren't good with me – or _to _me. On top of that, I am...highly observant. Very quickly, I can deduce things. My brother shares very similar skills, but his are more of a hobby," he explained, waving his hand dismissively. "I, however, reign in my abilities. I nurture them and practise, and if it's something that will continue earning me the reactions of "freak" and "weirdo" then that's something I'll have to learn to expect and accept. I plan to go to College and University and study all relevant subjects that will enable me to work freelance as a detective. Of course, I could do it without qualifications, but my parents are awfully keen on me going about things the right way, or the 'legal' way as my brother likes to say," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock-" John tried to interrupt again.

"Let me finish," Sherlock interjected. "I'm interested in bees. I beg my parents every Birthday and Christmas to let me start keeping bees but so far they haven't agreed. I have violin lessons every Sunday morning. I take my tea white with no sugar, my coffee black with two. My actual name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes but I am adamant that people call me Sherlock because my brother will _not_ have a more unusual name than me, I absolutely forbid it. I wet the bed until I was eleven and when my parents found out, Mycroft told them it was him to save my embarrassment, and they still to this day think it was him. My favourite colour is purple, my favourite animal is the Otter, my favourite food is a chocolate digestive biscuit. I like skulls and looking at things under my microscope, and my Mum once grounded me for a week because she caught me digging worms up in the garden to dissect and experiment on in the shed-" Sherlock cut himself off when he saw John smiling, tears gone, and Sherlock smiled back widely. "I don't have friends, John. I've just got one. And I trust you."

John seemed to stare at Sherlock for the longest time. Their gazes never faltered, both pairs of eyes glazed over. Then they both seemed to move at the same time, meeting in a tight embrace, and time that had paused in that moment of quiet realisation was shattered upon impact. Suddenly the Earth was spinning again, so much faster than they'd ever known, and they clung to each other for fear of falling off the face of it. John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck and finally, _finally_, he felt he had a home again. Sherlock sat there and cradled the smaller boy in his arms, rocking them both gently and shushing John as he began to cry silently. Sherlock could feel the wetness of John's tears on his skin and it made him hold on that much tighter.

When they left ten minutes later, John didn't give so much as a wave goodbye to his Mum and her house. There'd be a time to deal with it all, but that would come later, and for now John was happy to walk away with Sherlock by his side.


	6. Five

Hi guys! I'm still here, don't worry! Not gonna be one of those who leaves a story half-finished never to be updated again, fear not... I've just been really busy with life in general, and I had a mini block so I didn't want to force myself to write things I'd potentially regret writing/posting later. Anyway, I think you'll forgive me after this chapter...

Special thanks to the people who have followed and favourited this story so far, it means the world and I love you guys millions. x

* * *

School was hell.

The few classes Sherlock and John had together, they sat side by side, but the ones they didn't were not as easy. When they were together, at least they could talk to each other, but when they were apart it was a different matter.

"Hey, why are you friends with the freak?" One boy asked John during biology class.

"Why is he friends with you? Must be as much of a fucking weirdo," another said to Sherlock on his way to chemistry.

These things would happen frequently from those daring enough to speak up, and from others they received distasteful and mocking looks. It was awkward and tedious, and of course the staff did nothing, as usual. The only breaks they had from the constant harassment was when they weren't in the building, because even breaks and lunch were spent being laughed at.

One day, three weeks after John had moved into Sherlock's house permanently, the pair were about to start the short walk home. They'd barely left the school gates when a stocky boy, about an inch taller than John and an inch smaller than Sherlock, approached them. Alarm bells sounded in John's head and he could tell immediately that this was the start of trouble. He tried to grab Sherlock's jacket sleeve and pull him to the left so they could dodge him, but he blocked them and laughed.

"So what's the deal with you two gays, then? Off for a fuck, are you?" he sneered at them, and a few people surrounding them laughed and cheered him on. Within seconds, a crowd gathered, and Sherlock was visibly very uncomfortable, head down and his face bright red.

John wasn't so easily intimidated. "Fuck off, you arrogant twat," he spat, and once again attempted to guide himself and Sherlock past the bully. The boy, however, shoved them both hard, catching Sherlock off-balance. He fell to the floor, but John only stumbled a little before regaining posture. When he saw Sherlock sprawled on his back on the floor, a deep anger filled him, making him seethe. He was a second away from throwing a punch when someone else arrived on the scene.

"Piss off, Scott," the newcomer with cropped brown hair said seriously, drawing himself to his full height and crowding the troublesome teen. The brunette grinned to himself when the other boy swore and walked away, the crowd quickly leaving too. He offered a hand to Sherlock, but Sherlock just stared at it, expression blank.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said gently, and Sherlock accepted John's efforts at helping him to stand. Nobody mentioned it when John kept his hand on the small of Sherlock's back for silent support.

"Er, I'm Greg," the other boy offered with a little awkward edge to his voice, extending his hand to John this time.

John shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you, I guess. Thanks for that. He was an arsehole," he replied.

"He's always bloody causing shit, don't worry about him. All bark and no bite. I've seen you two around though, causing quite the stir. What's the deal with that?" Greg questioned, pulling out a cigarette packet from the inside of his denim jacket. He took one out, put it between his lips and lit it, taking a long drag before offering one to Sherlock and John. Sherlock accepted.

"I'm scum to them, so they've tarred John with the same brush," Sherlock explained.

Greg wrinkled his nose up at Sherlock's explanation. "Well that's bullshit," was the only comment he could think of for it.

The were walking together without even realising it, smoking and talking on the way. John's hand had fallen from Sherlock's back but they were walking closer than they'd ever done, it hadn't escaped Greg's attention as he walked to John's right.

"So... Are you two...?" he asked. "None of my business and as far as I'm concerned, it's fucking great, I was just wondering because there are some pretty...interesting rumours going around."

Sherlock looked sharply at Greg, narrowing his eyes. "John and I are good friends, and even if there were something more to our relationship, a complete stranger would be the last person we'd tell, let alone make it obvious to an entire building of incompetent, brainless sheep. Is that clear?" he said harshly, then took John _by the hand _and pulled him quickly ahead.

They walked that fast until they were no longer in sight of Lestrade, and even though they were only around the corner from Sherlock's house, the taller boy stopped them in a secluded alley that led to it.

"Does what's happening bother you, John?" he asked as he pulled them to a halt, running his hands wildly through his hair, pacing up and down shortly. He threw his cigarette to the ground and put it out with his shoe. "The rumours, the way you're treated just because you know me... Am I worth knowing even through all of that? Because I don't think I am. I think you're crazy even letting yourself be seen with me. You don't have to, you know. Even though you live with me, you could stay away from me during school. I wouldn't hate you. I'd- _Mmm._"

John's kiss, as it turned out, was enough to shut Sherlock Holmes up. The blonde took Sherlock's long, angular face in his hands and sealed his lips over his friend's. He had to tip-toe and it was hard to keep balance when the feel of Sherlock's full, plump lips made his head spin. John made to pull away, but Sherlock quickly brought his hands up to take John's face in return and kiss him back passionately. It was clumsy but sweet and both had wanted it for a while. They got lost in the lingering drag of lips on lips, clinging to each other the way you'd cling to a cliff's edge as you threatened to plummet to your death, and if they let go... Well, they didn't want to think about letting go. However, air was a must, and so they had to.

Both were breathing heavily, finding each other staring back through half-lidded eyes. John stayed close, unable to resist sliding his more rounded nose against Sherlock's thin one. It made Sherlock screw his face up adorably and stretch his mouth out in a smile. The same feeling of being home with one another had only strengthened, and where they'd once feared an awkward aftermath, they felt nothing but contentment, as if since the day they met they were always destined to end up as something indescribably perfect.

"You're worth it all and more," John murmured, looking Sherlock in the eyes to convey his utter honesty. "You're worth everything, even the taste of tobacco."

Sherlock could only wrap his arms around John's waist, pull him flush against his front and kiss him over and over. John giggled against his lips, sliding his arms comfortably around Sherlock's neck, enjoying the onslaught of affection more than he'd ever enjoyed anything in his life.


	7. Six

First of all, I'd like to apologise profusely for my lack of update for what feels like forever. I've had a block when it comes to Johnlock fic, yet an apparent boost in my need to write Destiel all of a sudden, something which I've never been partial to writing despite how much I passionately ship it...

Second of all, let me also apologise for this chapter's shortness. However, I feel it ends right and I have nothing more to particularly add to it, plus it means I can update sooner rather than even later.

Lastly, thank you to everyone for the reviews, comments, and follows. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I hope the late update hasn't put any of you off reading what I have to offer. You guys cheer me up and make me believe that my writing is actually worthy of anyone - even one person - reading. Whenever I look at my screen and hate what I've typed, seeing your support in these simple ways restores my faith in my abilities to tell a story and to tell it moderately well, so never ever underestimate the heartfelt honesty behind my gratitude. I love you all.

* * *

They approached the school gates the next morning hand-in-hand, gripping each other tightly. They planned to walk proudly through the entrance together, a brave act in a place full of so much hate towards them. Scattered around the gates were people smoking and probably doing more illegal things and they quickened a bit until a firm hand landed upon John's chest and they were stopped in their tracks.

"What the bloody hell-" John started.

"It's me, Greg," a male voice interjected, walking around to face them both. "You're not gonna walk into school like _that_, are you?" he asked, nodding at their fingers which were still intertwined. They both had blushed, Sherlock looking away as John cleared his throat awkwardly. Greg took that as a yes. "Look, like I said, I don't have a problem with it and neither should anyone else, but some of that lot in there...they'll be like moths to a flame, and it won't be pretty. I've seen it happen," he said, taking a drag of a cigarette he was holding, "and I don't want to see it happen again, especially not to you two. You seem decent enough lads. What goes on in your own time should stay in your own time. Don't flaunt it here unless you want beating up, alright?"

John knew Greg was trying to warn them, protect them from harm, but it riled John that it even needed doing at all. Their love, their relationship, shouldn't have to be a thing he had to hide, and he hated it. It made his blood boil and the hand not in Sherlock's curled into a fist, which didn't go unnoticed by Greg, or Sherlock for that matter.

"Look mate, I know it's not right. It shouldn't need to be a thing, and you might not be that fussed about saving your own arse but do you really wanna see him get beat up?" Greg asked John, motioning towards Sherlock with his face before turning to him too. "And do you wanna see John get hurt, too?" They both shook their heads, looking at the floor as their hands slid from each other's slowly. A pained look flashed over Greg's face and he patted John's arm sympathetically before dropping his cigarette to the floor and putting it out with his foot. He turned, about to go, when Sherlock stopped him.

"Thank you," the taller boy said quietly, and Greg regarded him for a moment before giving a small nod and smile and walking past them both.

* * *

The day passed with nothing more than the usual sly laughs and sneers. At lunch, they sat together and munched on barely enjoyable school cafeteria food and they discussed exams. John was doing prep for his science exams, and so was Sherlock. The previous night, they'd covered a whole wall of Sherlock's bedroom with revision posters, post-it notes of information, and useful diagrams, charts, and even a few simple drawings that would help them to remember things – hopefully.

* * *

When the bell rang, students poured from the classrooms and halls, spilling into the school grounds and escaping through the gates. Sherlock and John had learned to linger behind until the rest had mostly vanished in order to enjoy a slow and peaceful walk home rather than one that consisted of constantly looking over their shoulders.

They went along holding hands much like they'd done on the way there that morning, talking about the first of their science exams: biology. Sherlock was, for all his shyness and innocence, very interested in talking about the human body, particularly anatomy. John flushed whenever the taller boy began explaining how erections happen, and was almost glad when he heard someone awkwardly clear their throat behind them. He could also hazard a guess as to who it was disturbing them once again.

"Greg?" John asked before he'd even turned around, and sure enough the boy was there when he did, smoking as per usual.

"Hi guys," he said with a beam. "About this morning... I hope I didn't upset either of you. I meant what I said about it not mattering to me, I just honestly didn't want to see either of you get punched by some judgemental prick."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm starting to think you don't have anything better to do than to bother us. Believe it or not, Greg, it's not of importance to us whether you agree with our relationship or not. I am grateful for your concern, but your continuous habit of showing up is really starting to get on my last nerve," he drawled, gripping John's hand tighter.

"Sherlock, behave," John chided, shooting a stern glare at his boyfriend before turning back to Greg with a softened expression. "Don't mind him, he gets cranky when he's done three hours solid of chemistry surrounded by "incompetent fools who can't tell a Bunsen burner from a candle"."

Greg just frowned and looked at the floor. "I wasn't saying that you need my approval or anything, I just thought it might be a breath of fresh air to hear that someone is happy to see two other people happy. For the record, it's made me really happy to see it. I'm...somewhat struggling myself," Greg confessed quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette with shaking hands and lips.

John's eyes widened slightly. "...really?" he asked, shocked.

The boy laughed and nodded. "Yeah. I've always been into girls until recently I found myself drawn to this lad in the rugby team. I have no one to talk to about it, and I can't admit it; I'd get kicked off straight away. It's been lonely, y'know? Seeing you guys has...made that better. I'd hoped we could be friends. I kind of need that right now, pardon me for sounding desperate and all."

Sherlock's face had changed into a mixture of understanding and shame, shame at the way he'd behaved moments earlier. "I'm sorry, Greg. You're free to speak to us whenever you wish, sit with us at lunch, get coffee with us after school – whatever you want. We're friends," he assured, and Greg smiled honestly and more widely than he had done in months.

* * *

The three ended up at the park sipping coffee from Angelo's stall after making a detour on the way home. Sherlock had quickly sent a text to his Mum, knowing she'd only fuss if he didn't let her know why they weren't home on time, and then he'd treated them all to their drinks and they'd sat on a picnic bench nearby, Sherlock and John on one side and Greg across from them.

"So tell us about you," John said to Greg, tone light and friendly as he sipped from his cardboard cup. Greg shifted on his seat a little, both hands around his cup as he stared at it, thinking of what to say.

"I'm sixteen and I'm taking sport, maths, and all the sciences at advanced level. I'm on the school's rugby team and have been since I started here five years ago – I'm actually captain, now. My last name is Lestrade. I want to become a detective inspector one day, or at least join the police force. Oh, and I'm a little bit gay, apparently," he finished, laughing to himself.

Sherlock and John shared a grin at that, and each proceeded to tell Greg about themselves in return. Before they knew it, a good few hours had passed, the last of their coffee dregs long gone and several cigarettes smoked between Sherlock and Greg, both of them ignoring John's protest at the "disgusting habit" and how he wishes Sherlock – and now Greg – would knock it on the head.

* * *

They were getting on so well, as if they'd all three been friends for a lot longer than they actually had been. For Sherlock and John, it felt good to finally have someone else within school in their corner, and for Greg, it was a huge weight off his shoulders to finally have not one, but two people to confide in about his sexuality crisis.

The nasty remarks and general hostility usually aimed towards Sherlock and John died down somewhat at the new and frequent presence of Greg by their sides during school. He sometimes joined them at lunch, and where they'd once all feared that Greg too would fall victim to the same judgement that had befallen them both, they soon realised that it was quite the opposite – no one was apparently ballsy enough to take on the rugby team captain and, for all they knew, the rest of the team – Greg's _friends _– as well.

For the first time since John had arrived at the school and area itself, he felt like he truly had a place there, and with both Sherlock and Greg at his sides, the probability of something going wrong finally seemed to lessen.

It felt like he could finally breathe again.


	8. Seven

**WARNING:** drug dealing and implied drug use in this chapter and for the rest of this story.

I had a different direction I was going to take this story, and I mean a _really_ different direction, but then I had this idea and I couldn't not go with it. A short chapter at just under 1,000 words but these sorts of chapters are to move the story along, to break it up. They're essential when writing plot, I feel.

Shout out to everyone for the reviews, favs, and follows. You guys are fucking wonderful, the lot of you.

* * *

Every Friday, Greg and his team stayed behind for football practise, and being Captain, he took it as his responsibility to lock up the sports shed when everyone else went to shower and change in the locker room. After he'd cleared away everything and returned the keys to the head of the P.E department's office, everyone else was already done, so Greg decided to skip the shower and head home in his kit. It was a Friday, so his things could be washed straight away anyway.

He left the school grounds through the exit that was used for fire drills and sports students. It was a metal gate at the top of the football pitch. He walked along the path, bag slung over his shoulder, cigarette alternating between his lips and fingers as he smoked it. If he carried on, the path would take him to the staff car park and the bike sheds, and after that, he'd be back at the main exit.

Greg never expected to catch Sherlock Holmes buying drugs off the streets.

At first, he didn't know it was Sherlock at all. The stocky brown-haired boy ducked behind a teacher's car and watched in shock as a man and a boy around his own age exchanged cash for goods in the shadows of the bike sheds. The boy was wearing an oversized hoodie to disguise himself, with your regular black skinny jeans and pair of tattered Chuck Taylors. Greg was about to walk out from the car he was behind and carry on like he'd seen nothing, but then as the boy put his head down and stuffed the small packet of drugs under his hoodie, he saw a flash of wild, dark curls peek out of the hood, and the blood drained from Greg's face.

"Sherlock..." he whispered to himself, unable to believe his eyes. _Surely John doesn't know about this?_ he thought to himself, doubting that John would let it happen, or continue to live with and love a drug-user, or God forbid use them as well.

Keeping as much of his cool as he could, Greg impatiently waited for the older man to slink away before he quickly scrambled up from behind the car and caught up to Sherlock before he could get away. Greg didn't know if Sherlock would run or freeze at the sight of him, but he prepared for both – he trod lightly so as not to spook, but it would also let him fall into a sprint easily if he needed to.

"Sherlock," Greg repeated when he was closer, this time not to himself but to get the boy's attention. When Sherlock turned at the voice and locked eyes with him, Greg knew he'd have to run.

Sherlock bolted, long legs carrying him fast, but Greg was far faster, having years of training and football on his side. His muscular legs allowed him to power up to Sherlock within a matter of seconds, not giving himself time to slow down before he ran full pelt into Sherlock's back and knocked him to the ground.

"Greg, get _off_!" Sherlock demanded angrily, struggling beneath the weight of Greg, but Greg was not going anywhere.

"I saw," Greg said between gritted teeth. "I fucking _saw_, Sherlock, now explain before I break your fucking arm." He got no response, so he continued. "What the fuck is John going to say about this? Does he know, Sherlock? Does he know that his boyfriend is doing drugs? _Does he_?!"

Sherlock flinched at the mention of John's name and his struggling ceased. In a quiet voice, he finally answered Greg's questions. "He doesn't know," he said, then added, "and I don't intend for him to find out. Please, Greg-"

"Don't," Greg cut him off right there. "I won't keep this dirty little secret, and I won't lie to John. He deserves to know, and if you won't tell him – _which you really should fucking do, by the way_ – then I will, and I think that will be far worse for him, don't you?"

Sherlock shook his head and let out a frustrated scream. He made a fist and thumped the ground beneath him with it, and the sickly crack his knuckles made when they collided with the harsh concrete made Greg jump violently with a pained expression.

"Great, now you've fucked your hand up, too. You're a fucking idiot," Greg chastised, no fondness in the insult like there usually would be. This time Greg was angry. He was angry at what it would do to John, angry at what it would do to _Sherlock_, and if his family found out...

"Shut the fuck up," Sherlock said, eyeing the boy still pinning him down. "Just _shut the fuck up._ You know nothing, you _are_ nothing, and you don't get a say in this. Go near John and I'll murder you, do you understand? You. Say. _Nothing._"

At Sherlock's unexpected harsh, bitter words, he numbly released his hold on Sherlock and stood, and the other boy did the same, brushing himself down briskly before sniffing, turning his nose up at Greg.

"This never happened," he stated clearly, then turned and started to walk away.

Greg squinted as Sherlock walked away, voice betraying how badly the boy's words had stung. "You should really tell him," he said simply. Sherlock stopped, listening, waiting. "Either way, things like this always come out in the end, and they blow up in the faces of everyone you love. Just...think about John. If nothing else, think of him. His sister is in rehab and his family aren't much better. Are you really going to put him through this too?" he asked.

Sherlock stayed still for another few moments, and then he carried on walking.

Greg sighed in defeat, taking out another cigarette and lighting it.


End file.
